


When You Are Real You Don't Mind Being Hurt

by Wisteria_Leigh



Series: Prompted Works [6]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Shot, Sickfic, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-09-02 12:50:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16787299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wisteria_Leigh/pseuds/Wisteria_Leigh
Summary: Adam’s arms are crossed and his brow raised and he’s refusing to acknowledge that Ronan claims to be sitting on his deathbed. If a stranger were to walk in right now, he’d look like an asshole. Because the best way to manage an asshole? Either kill them with kindness or out-asshole them.Adam almost always chooses the latter.





	When You Are Real You Don't Mind Being Hurt

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by an anon on tumblr from [ this list ](http://purrincesscatitude.tumblr.com/post/180566839025/drabble-challenge): “I’m not going to be sympathetic until you go to a doctor.” 
> 
> Not in love with this but posting it anyways so sorry, Anon on tumblr, if this disappoints!!

Adam doesn’t like surprises. He’s a linear thinker, doesn’t like when things don’t fit into the designated order of his universe. The kid has his life planned out through his 40s, for goodness’ sake, he clearly doesn’t have time for the unexpected.

Ronan is the sole exception. He loves that he’s always finding something new about Ronan, that 3 years later Ronan can still surprise him with his attention to detail and his compassion and selflessness and odd quirks and contradictions.

And one of those delightful little surprises is how goddamn _whiny_ he is when he’s not feeling well. Stubborn, too. That’s not much of a shocker, but it’s impressive how Ronan manages to seamlessly beg for sympathy while also _refusing to do anything about it._

At least when Adam’s sick and not doing shit about it, he doesn’t complain. He just suffers until someone (usually Ronan) gets annoyed with watching him suffer and convinces him to go to the fucking student health center and stop being Patient 0 for the next black plague.

Ronan though is the worst of both worlds.

It started with a sore throat a few days ago. “Probably just a cold,” he’d said. “Whatever, I’ll fucking manage.” Except the next day his throat felt like it had been ripped to shreds by rusted nails, and today his tonsils are definitely larger than he thinks they’re supposed to be, and his entire body aches, and he can’t talk or swallow or exist without his throat screaming in pain like he’s rubbing razor blades and gravel into open wounds.

“I fucking hate everything,” he says-- _tries_ to say, but everything hurts and he’s dying, which makes his trademarked Angry Voice raspy and weak and cracking like he’s thirteen again and in the throes of puberty.

Adam’s arms are crossed and his brow raised and he’s refusing to acknowledge that Ronan claims to be sitting on his deathbed. If a stranger were to walk in right now, he’d look like an asshole. Because the best way to manage an asshole? Either kill them with kindness or out-asshole them.

Adam almost always chooses the latter.

“I’m not going to be sympathetic until you go to a doctor.”

“It hurts like a motherfucking son of a _bitch_ ,” Ronan groans, but that’s a complaint, not a concession. 

Put “How Ronan Lynch is still able to talk while his tonsils have nearly quadrupled in size” on the list of Earth’s greatest mysteries, right up there with the Bermuda Triangle and Stonehenge.

“Why the fuck is this happening to me?” he moans. His voice gives out part way and causes a full-body cringe.

“Stop talking and just use fucking Sign, Ronan, Jesus Christ. You’re making it worse.”

Ronan gives him the middle finger.

“Not what I meant, asshole.”

It was Adam’s roommate’s girlfriend’s idea, them learning ASL. He went to a party with some of his engineering friends early spring semester, one of those basement ragers in an upperclassman’s off-campus house where everything is too dark and too loud and probably triple the fire safety maximum occupancy. Adam couldn’t hear anything all night, hadn’t been able to talk to anyone, could barely hear the next day as well. His friends thought he had heard them say they were leaving; he hadn’t. So he had to find his way back to the dorms on his own at 1 am from some random street a half mile off-campus. For obvious reasons, he wasn’t exactly happy about it.

Julie brought it up the next time he saw her and told her what happened. “First, those guys suck, and I’m sorry,” she said. “Second, did you ever learn any ASL?”

“No. I mean, I’m not _that_ deaf, so it didn’t seem like something I would need.”

“My brother’s deaf in one ear, and has, like, about 60% hearing loss in the other? He can get by reading lips, but my family started learning ASL so we could talk in loud places. Having better going-out buddies would be your first step to not letting that happen again, obvi, but maybe it’d be worth learning the basics, just so you always have a backup?”

Adam bristled at the idea, and icily said, “thanks but no thanks. I’m fine.”

Julie didn’t push it, but did say if he ever decided otherwise, she had some resources. 

He relayed the conversation to Ronan a few nights later. Ronan’s reaction was, “wait, so if we learned it, I’d be able to cuss in _another_ language? Fucking rad, dude.”

Translation: if I learn this with you, I can help make your life easier? Hell yeah get me a dictionary right now.

He texted Julie that night. He joined ASL Club the week after. And of course Ronan would never tell Adam that he was spending every moment not working the farm watching videos and reading books so the next time he came to visit he could out-sign him (“There are SO many ways to curse in ASL. Fucking amazing,” he said after greeting Adam in Sign. Adam’s smile was so bright and so warm that Ronan’s knees went weak.)

So if Ronan is more than capable of talking with something other than his infected throat, then maybe he should fucking do so.

“Seriously. You probably have strep. You need antibiotics. Just go to an Urgent Care,” Adam says.

“I can deal with it,” Ronan snaps back, and Adam is not surprised that he’s willing to suffer excruciating pain just to be stubborn as shit. “Just...I’ll eat some ice cubes or some shit. Get--goddamn it _ow_.”

“You’re going to get Scarlet Fever and we’re gonna have to burn all of your earthly possessions.”

“It’s not fucking 1922 and I’m not a stupid fucking kid with a stupid fucking rabbit toy in a stupid fucking story.”

Adam frowns. “I like that book.”

“It’s too damn sad. I hate it.”

Ronan swallows, curses, and groans out of both pain and frustration. Adam sighs.

“You’re acting like a child.”

“Go fuck yourself.” And it would’ve sounded far more venomous if his voice wasn’t a thready whisper.

Ronan wants to be like that? Fine. Two can play this game. And Adam has no intention of losing.

“Alright,” he says, “I’ll go do that. You enjoy suffering alone.”

“Wait--” Ronan whispers. Adam pauses, almost believes him, thinks that maybe this was all just bravado for the sake of annoying the shit out of him, which is par for the course for Ronan regardless of his health. This’ll be the fastest battle of wills they’ve ever had, and Adam is making a tally right now in his column of wins and--

Ronan throws the bottle of lube from the bedside drawer at him. “Don’t forget that.”

It takes invoking a higher power, every ounce of self-control Adam has, and a very, very deep breath to not spit something out that he’ll regret.

Instead, he looks Ronan dead in the eyes and says, “text me when you’re ready to go to Urgent Care.”

And then he leaves the bedroom.

#######

Adam knows he’ll win this. Because either Lynch will break, or he’ll become catatonic. Regardless, Adam _will_ get him to the doctor’s. For now, he waits.

Ronan manages exactly one hour and 34 minutes. He trudges downstairs in sweatpants and a hoodies, and flops onto the couch next to Adam. The stubborn asshole routine is gone, replaced with pure misery and a feverish blush. Adam knows he’s won, but he decides not to count this round.

“You done being difficult?” Adam says gently, feeling the uncomfortable warmth of Ronan’s forehead as he runs a hand across his buzzcut and down his neck.

Ronan nods, eyes closed, and swallows with a grimace. Adam rubs his shoulders for a moment.

“Okay. Get shoes on. I’ll drive.”

They take the BMW, because the seats are way comfier and the ride is much smooth. Ronan is quiet, doesn’t even ask for the music to be turned on, and sits curled up half-asleep in the passenger seat for the entire drive into town.

Apparently, Ronan used up the last of his speaking ability telling Adam to fuck off (which is so obnoxiously on-brand for Lynch it’s an honest-to-God tragedy he’s too sick to appreciate it), so Adam talks to the woman at the desk on his behalf. They get the usual “fill this out, it’ll be a while,” speech, and settle in the corner of the waiting room. Ronan fills out the paperwork; Adam has to call Declan and ask a few insurance questions because of course Ronan has absolutely no idea. 

“Probably gonna be here a while, okay?” Adam says after he turns in the paperwork for him. Ronan sighs, and lays his head on Adam’s shoulder. Adam adjusts in response. “Just rest in the meantime.”

Ronan signs back an expletive-laced approximation of “this sucks”, to which Adam whispers, “I know. I’m sorry,” and presses a gentle kiss into his forehead.

From across the room, an older man with a mullet and a camo jacket scowls at them. Adam and Ronan simultaneously show him the finger. His face turns splotchy red, and turns back to the shitty midday HGTV show on the wall-mounted televisions with a huff.

“I hate this place,” Adam grumbles.

“Fucking same,” Ronan signs. He leans even further into Adam, and Adam kisses him once more in response.

The man doesn’t look their way again.

They wait for 45 minutes. Adam reads through two and a half lit reviews on his phone. Ronan drifts in and out of sleep; when Adam looks over when he’s awake, he’s watching the TV across the room, brow furrowed and mouth drawn into a frown. Every time he winces when he swallows, Adam flinches in response.

It’s weird, he thinks, how young Ronan looks when he’s this level of miserable. Or maybe it’s not that he looks young, but just looks his age. It’s hard sometimes for Adam to remember that he’s still 19. It’s hard for Adam to remember that about himself sometimes, too. They’re still teenagers. Orphaned, magical, world-weary teenagers, sure, but teenagers nonetheless. And right now, Ronan is a teenager who feels like absolute shit.

And, Adam realizes, he’s a teenager who feels like shit who’s never been so sick and not had his parents there to take care of him.

Adam swallows. He forgets, sometimes, that it probably hurts more to know what familial love was like and to have it taken away than to never have known it at all.

He kisses Ronan’s feverish temple again. Ronan sits up. “What?” he manages to whisper.

“Nothing,” Adam says. “Just thinking.”

Ronan snorts, and does the closest thing to a smile Adam’s seen from him in the past three days.

A door opens. “Ronan Lynch?” the nurse calls.

“Fucking finally,” Ronan says, switching back to Sign language. Adam nudges his shoulder.

Adam talks for Ronan, and Ronan signs things that are sometimes helpful but mostly just expletives and Adam doesn’t want to make the very nice nurse uncomfortable so he leaves out those parts, which makes Ronan curse more.

When the nurse asks about preexisting conditions, her brow knits when Ronan says, “nothing.” (correction: he says “pulling shit out of my dreams like a goddamn magician” but Adam rolls his eyes and translates “none, thank you” instead.)

“No hearing issues?” she asks Adam.

“No.”

“Oh. Okay.” She’s clearly confused, but makes the note on the computer anyways.

Adam looks to Ronan.

“ASL,” he replies.

Oh. Of course. He’s an idiot. Hadn’t even considered that wasn’t normal. Hadn’t thought that, for once, Adam doesn’t look like the one with hearing loss.

His stomach clenches. Like it always does when anything vaguely related to his ear is brought up. He can feel Ronan watching him, as he always does when Adam’s hearing comes into question. Waits for Adam’s reaction, to gauge what Adams needs from him in that moment.

God, even when he’s feeling like crap he’s too fucking selfless. So unfair. 

“No, no, he just can’t talk because the, y’know, strep,” Adam clarifies, holding his breath, waiting for the next, inevitable question: _Oh! So why do you know Sign language, then?_

“Ah. Got it,” the nurse says, sweet smile back on as she takes Ronan’s blood pressure and temperature. She doesn’t mention it again.

Adam exhales.

He’s got a fever--as if the deepening flush along his cheeks and dulled blue eyes weren’t enough of an indicator--and they do the strep test throat swab, also a quick blood test for mono, just in case. The swab comes back positive, “although I could’ve diagnosed you by sight alone, because Lord, are you swollen back there!” the doctor proclaims as she shines a light down Ronan’s throat.

“Really? I hadn’t fucking noticed,” Ronan signs. Adam snickers. The doctor’s too busy exclaiming about his tonsils to realize.

They prescribe him antibiotics and send them on their way. Ronan’s only been out of bed for two hours by the time they’re back in the car, but he looks beyond exhausted.

“Think you can make it through a trip to Walgreens?” Adam asks, rubbing his back while he settles into the passenger's seat again.

“Yeah,” Ronan croaks out.

He waits by the pharmacy counter for his meds. Adam grabs gatorade and soup and Tylenol and throat spray. They’re back in the car within twenty minutes.

“Don’t take those yet,” Adam says, grabbing Ronan’s wrist before he can fully twist off the pill bottle cap. “You’ll puke if you don’t eat something first. I’m serious,” he notes when Ronan’s eyes spark with familiar defiance. Really, it’s absurd that he claims to have no idea where Opal gets it from. “Here. Popsicle. It’ll help.”

Ronan munches on the popsicle on the drive back to the Barns, and downs the first dose of the antibiotics with a swig of gatorade once he’s done.

He doesn’t make it up the stairs once they’re inside, curling up on the couch instead and clearly not planning on getting up anytime soon. So Adam grabs one of the pillows from their bed and a quilt he knows was Aurora’s, and lets Ronan settle into the couch for now.

“Can you take some Tylenol before you sleep?” Adam asks, kneeling by his head and brushing his knuckles along Ronan’s burning cheekbones. “Get your fever down a bit?”

Ronan accepts the pills and a cup of water.

“Ouch,” he whispers as he swallows.

“It’ll help, I promise.”

Ronan hums in reply, eyes fluttering shut. Adam thinks he’s fallen asleep, until he grits out, “hey Adam?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you.”

Adam smiles, leaves a long & gentle kiss on his temple. “Of course. Anything for you.”

“I’ll remember that next time I want to do something stupid.”

“I have no doubt you will.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "The Velveteen Rabbit". ALSO if I messed up any terminology or whatever in relation to hearing loss/deafness/Sign please let me know and I'll fix it!


End file.
